


caring is not an advantage

by teawriter



Series: Reisaru AU [3]
Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Sherlock AU, Unrequited Love, kind of, loosely based on the Irene Adler episode of Sherlock, no Kings or powers in this au, one sided reisaru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 21:43:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teawriter/pseuds/teawriter
Summary: It’s not Fushimi’s business who Munakata likes, or whatever; the man has his own life too, and he has no desire to indulge in his roommates’s- friend’s, whatever- love life.(Who are you actually fooling, here?)Munakata Reisi doesn’t get heartbroken. And yet...(Haven’t you ever mourned for someone?)





	caring is not an advantage

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on “A Scandal in Belgravia,” the first episode of BBC Sherlock season 2.
> 
> Music: Dead Island Trailer Theme, Giles Lamb

_“You chug a fifth of alcohol by yourself and everyone around you is too busy cheering to wonder how empty you had to be in order to do it_.” - _Anonymous_

 

“They all care so much,” Munakata says, one evening.

It’s a weird remark, but Fushimi doesn’t think much of it; the other man’s said weirder things before. He raises his head from where he’s been staring at the laptop, reading something about a string of connected robberies, and props his head on an arm. He isn’t irritated, not really, but the comment is still vague enough that it gets under his skin. “What?”

”When a person dies, even strangers gather to mourn,” Munakata replies distractedly. He hasn’t turned away from the window once. “Is it not strange that people care so much about someone they have never known?”

There was a funeral two days ago- a lady named Kanesawa Hitomi died of a twenty-year battle with recurring cancer. She wasn’t famous or anything; she just worked in the flower shop that had belonged to her family for six generations- her niece was to take over soon. Fushimi feels his annoyance slip away as the reason behind Munakata’s remarks become known. “That person... was important to some people. I guess mourning together is a sign of respect, or something.”

”Respect?”

”Probably.” It’s common sense; anyone who has never been to a funeral ought to know this. Fushimi clicks his tongue, rests his arms on the table. “Haven’t you ever mourned for someone?”

It’s a question waiting for an answer that never comes. Munakata turns away from the window; he doesn’t speak, but walks to the chair that always has his violin resting on it. For a moment, discordant harmony echoes in the room as the bow drags across the strings to tune; then, in the silence that follows, a simple, sad tune blossoms into the air and blends with the orchestral _patter-patter_ of rain against the ceiling. 

Fushimi shuts off his laptop and closes the lid- the robberies weren’t interesting anyway. He sits back in his chair and watch- listens- as Munakata improvises yet another piece on the violin that is tenfold more emotional than anything else he’s played. And Fushimi thinks back to his question.

 _Haven’t you ever mourned for someone_?

A small question, small in comparison to other things they’ve talked about before. Also one that Munakata didn’t necessarily need to answer if he didn’t want to. And yet, the lack of a reply agitates Fushimi until he isn’t sure why it does.

The violin plays on. 

 

 

Suoh Mikoto is Munakata’s friend. Old friend, if the inside jokes they crack around each other or the banter that only they can understand are anything to go by.

He’d shown up to the apartment only hours earlier to ask for their help in finding the person guilty of murdering his friend- _Either you find Colorless, Munakata, or I do; and it’s not going to be pretty when I do_. They’d slipped into banter not long after, exchanging very not-subtle barbs over lunch later in the day, and Fushimi would have gone home except that investigating is done better with a partner. 

And investigate he did- he talked to the authorities about the killer nicknamed Colorless, questioned Suoh Mikoto along with Munakata, watched and rewatched the video that Colorless left behind at the crime scene, found out everything he could about Totsuka Tatara. He even talked to the local delinquents, and asked around about the man who carried a guitar and a video camera with him everywhere he went. 

He is working himself to death with this case.

He is _not_ jealous of Suoh Mikoto.

He sees them sometimes, when they aren’t looking or paying attention to them- conversations colored with insults and name calling leaning a little too close to flirting, the way one looks at the other when the other isn’t looking. The little touches, when they happen, lingering longer than necessary on a shoulder, a wrist, or upper back. Never sitting apart for more than two feet, like the world would actually end if they did.

It’s not Fushimi’s business who Munakata likes, or whatever; the man has his own life too, and he has no desire to indulge in his roommates’s- friend’s, whatever- love life. 

But then, the aching burn he feels whenever he sees them together doesn’t make sense. Why he snaps at Mikoto every time the man so much asks him about the weather or how he’s doing doesn’t make sense. The gnawing despair that claws at him every time conversations with Munakata dissolve into only small talk or questions about groceries is driving him insane, and he doesn’t even know why. 

 _It’s probably the case_ , Fushimi thinks, and that makes more sense. He’s been the only one doing any actual work on it, of course he’d feel upset. 

_(Who are you actually fooling, here?)_

He doesn’t need the darkest parts of his own subconscious to tell him, when he runs out of the apartment after hearing them laugh, that it’s not about the case.

 

 

”S’there a reason you hate me so much, Fushimi?”

”I don’t hate you.”

”...”

”...”

”... Quit with that look! You’re annoying on a daily basis as it is!”

”Is it because of Munakata?”

 _Well, what gave it away?_ ”... What the hell are you saying?”

”Look, with that guy and me, it’s complicated-”

 _“I didn’t ask_.”

”... Does he know?”

 _No._ ”Look, can we just get to the part where you tell me everything you know about Colorless and not whatever we’re twlking about right now? Thanks.”

”Sure.”

 

 

Suoh Mikoto is dead.

Found on the grounds behind a local high school, with multiple scratches on his face, a gaping stab wound in his chest, and the body of Colorless beaten to a bloody pulp a few feet away from him. The autopsy showed that in the middle of their final showdown that Mikoto had been stabbed right before he delivered the two blows that broke Colorless’ ribs and punctured his lungs. 

No one talked about the bloody knife, found inches away from Colorless’ hand.

Suoh Mikoto died two days ago; Munakata hasn’t been himself since then. 

He writes sad music, compositions that pull the tears from Awashima’s eyes and the ever-intensifying ache from Fushimi’s chest and turn them into eulogies; it’s made the neighbors cry, and they don’t even know what happened. He doesn’t eat- the only things Fushimi remembers him ever ingesting since two days ago are sleeping pills and tea. He barely talks- even the minimal “good mornings” are gone, and although Munakata still gets up as early as he’s ever done he doesn’t do anything except play his heart out on the violin and maybe disappear for a good three hours or so.

Munakata Reisi doesn’t get heartbroken. And yet...

 _Haven’t you ever mourned for someone_?

Fushimi hates Suoh Mikoto, for shoving his way like the brute that he was into their lives that were perfectly fine before he came around even if he did have a valid excuse. Hates him for seeing two much, hates him for doing something so stupid like going solo to find a killer, hates him _especially_ for getting close to Munakata and then leaving him in the worst way possible. He hates him for being able to do exactly what Fushimi himself is unable to do, hates himself for thinking he ever had a chance.

Most of all, Fushimi hates himself for asking such a heartless question.

So when Munakata comes back from his three-hour disappearance, there’s already a teapot with his favorite tea inside next to three square pieces of confectionery. His violin’s already been tuned, his bow already rosined.

Fushimi sits at his normal seat, with a book that he isn’t even concentrating on even as he turns the pages as his ears stay tuned for any noise coming from Munakata’s direction. _The Tale of Genji_ \- the pages flip. Silence prevails.

Then there’s a hand resting on Fushimi’s head; the book drops to the carpet with a dull thud. “It’s been difficult, Fushimi-kun,” Munakata murmurs with a strained voice. “Forgive me.”

Gnawing despair plummets into stinging hopelessness, and the touch sends sparks of agony through his body; Fushimi swallows, and looks up. “Did he... say anything to you before... before that?”

”Once, the time you ran out.”

”... What did he say?”

“... ‘Goodbye, Munakata.’”

Eight days ago, the lady at the flower shop had died, and the streets rose up to mourn. Now Suoh Mikoto is dead, and there is only one who mourns; the only funeral for a delinquent is in the hearts and minds of the people who knew him.

Munakata’s hand slips off his head. Footsteps taper off as they head into one of the bedrooms; the door shuts with a click that belies the punch that hangs against the wall only seconds later. Shortly after, rain hits the roof; when people mourn, there is always rain.

In this apartment, there are two: one is mourning the loss of what could have been, the loss of someone dearer to them than life itself. The other is mourning something different- the other is mourning that which could never be, because there is no such thing as a perfect world and people can’t always get what they wish for even if that wish burns them up inside until the only way to let out despair is to release it in a cry of flames. 

Fushimi takes off his glasses, presses his palms against his eyes, and tries not to scream.


End file.
